


Heal My Wounds

by Natteravn



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Friendship, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natteravn/pseuds/Natteravn
Summary: And now the traffic announcement with an urgent message from North Rhine-Westphalia. A severe accident on B54 in Dortmund-Süd is currently blocking all northbound traffic. The emergency services are on site, reporting two cars involved, two dead, one critically and one moderately injured. The road will be closed until further notice.





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [axellevmalfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/axellevmalfoy/gifts).



> First of: Yes, this is a death fic, and I’m going to spoil you in advance because I know that many don’t like starting fics only to find out halfway through that a main character and/or part of a ship dies. Secondly, to avoid confusion: both Manuel’s brother and Kevin’s cousin bear the name Marcel.
> 
> Dear axellevmalfoy. I know it’s taken me a long time to finish your request, and I hope you didn’t lose hope and interest along the way, or thought that I had forgotten all about it. I knew from the get-go how I wanted to do it, but it has taken me some time, because — given how serious and delicate a topic this is — I didn’t want to rush it. And I didn’t want to focus only on the moment of death and the emotions; that would be too shallow in my opinion and not give the fic the depth it needed. I hope you’re not disappointed with the outcome and that it was worth the long wait.
> 
> To everyone else who might read this fic and who have (recently) lost a loved one: I hope you are as okay as you can be, that you have people around you who make life worth living, and that this fic won’t offend nor bring back memories you’d rather not think about right now. This is, as always, only a work of fiction, based completely on my own imagination and not meant to cause any offense.
> 
> The title is taken from the song with the same name by Poets of the Fall. Highly recommended!
> 
> \---
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Nothing written in my fanfictions is real – I have made absolutely everything up. These persons belong exclusively to themselves, and when I write about them, I see them as _characters based on the real persons_ , not the actual alive and breathing people. I make no profit from my writing, and I do not mean to offend or harass anyone with my works.

Sunday afternoon, the day before the last international break of the year, Manuel sends Kevin a WhatsApp message. A very standard, simple message, nothing out of the ordinary, one he’s sent countless times in the past.

_congrats on the win against Arminia! have a nice trip home, drive safely_

Kevin’s reply, a simple thumb up emoji, comes shortly after. He’s been given time to visit his family during the international break, and Manuel secretly wishes that he could join him. Not that he wants to skip his national team duty, but Bernd and Marc-André are very much capable of handling a match against San Marino and a friendly against Italy on their own. It’s been so long since he and Kevin last had the time to not only see each other, but actually spend some quality time together.

Instead, he’s stuck here, packing his suitcase for another trip abroad. Oh, how he’s looking forward to the winter break and the Christmas holiday – neither of them going anywhere, neither of them having any plans but staying in the Ruhrgebiet, spending time with each other. Sleeping in, Netflix, movie nights, dinners with their families, cuddles in the morning, showering together, just be able to kiss whenever they feel like it, all those cheesy, simple couple things Manuel never really thought he’d come to want.

Somehow, he makes the afternoon pass by. He turns on the radio, and hums along to the popular music as he does stuff around the house that he should’ve done ages ago – laundry, paying bills, cleaning the bathrooms, including scrubbing the shower and the bathtub. All because he doesn’t want to finish packing, because he’s less motivated for the international break than usual, which again is Kevin’s fault. To make the work a little more bearable, he sends Kevin voice messages on WhatsApp, updating him on what a responsible person he is, so that Kevin at least has his voice to listen to when he arrives in Dortmund.

It’s almost ten o’clock in the evening when he realises that he needs to get the packing over with if he’s going to be done by bedtime. He still needs a shower before then, and Kevin could be calling anytime now. Manuel knows he won’t get another thing done once he receives that call. That’s another relationship thing they wrote off as stupid for years, but have started doing lately – always call each other whenever they reach their destinations. Make sure everything went well, they arrived safe and sound. Discuss whatever weird, strange, funny or annoying things that happened on the road.

In the bathroom, he packs the toiletries he’ll need into the toilet bag, making sure that every cork is screwed on properly, leaving just enough space for the things he’ll still need in the morning, like the toothbrush and toothpaste.

Back in the living room he puts the toilet bag on top of everything else in his suitcase, and throws his watch a quick look. _22:02_. Kevin should be home by now, shouldn’t he? It can’t have been that much traffic on the Autobahn on a late Sunday evening.

As if on cue, the hourly news on the radio ends on a dramatic note.

_And now the traffic announcement with an urgent message from North Rhine-Westphalia._

Just the name of his and Kevin’s home state is enough to make him sharpen his ears, and he hurries over to the radio to turn up the sound.

_A severe accident on B54 in Dortmund-Süd is currently blocking all northbound traffic. The emergency services are on site, reporting two cars involved, two dead, one critically and one moderately injured. The road will be closed until further notice._

No. _No._

He checks his watch again, _22:03_ it glows at him. Kevin can’t have started from Stuttgart much later than five o’clock – surely, it can’t have taken him more than four and a half hours to get home? No, this is just some freaky coincidence. Kevin’s already in Dortmund, he has to be, he just wanted to catch up with his parents first, and say hi to Lenny before bedtime. That’s why he hasn’t called yet.

Still, Manuel can’t help but reach for his phone with trembling hands and go straight to speed dial; there’s no point checking WhatsApp or texting, not when he needs a response now, at once.

But no one picks up and after about a minute of the dead, monotone dial tone, he’s met with Kevin’s voicemail. Fuck, he swears, chooses speed dial again and starts pacing around in the living room. _Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up._

Voicemail for the second time.

“For fuck’s sake, Kevin!” he yells into it before hanging up, realising immediately after that that’s probably not the best voice message to leave without a context. For the third time, he presses the speed dial, and for the third time, it goes straight to voicemail.

“Kevin, listen, if you’re angry with me and that’s the reason you won’t pick up, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you as fast as humanly possible. But right now, you just have to call me back. There’s been an accident and I _need to know_ that you weren’t in it. Please, call me back as soon as you get this. Please.”

The radio has gone on to play some upbeat, happy pop song. Manuel throws it a look, then turns it off altogether. He watches as the digital clock goes from 22:06 to 22:07, then he chooses the speed dial again.

“Can’t you just for once, for _once_ , Kevin, do as you’re told? Please, just– _**please**_?” Loud and desperate, on the brink to angry, but then weaker, quieter, more broken, “ _Please_ …”

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the phone to his chest, hoping, begging for it to start vibrating any second now, and it’s Kevin calling him back just to tell him that he forgot his phone in his car or something. Anything. Whatever it is. He doesn’t care what it might be, he doesn’t care if Kevin’s pissed at him for something stupid that happened ages ago or because Manuel forgot something, he just wants, needs Kevin to give some, any sign of life and he’ll be fine, he’ll start breathing again.

But nothing happens, not for the minutes Manuel stands there and hopes and prays and begs. He flings the phone on the sofa in frustration, pulls at his hair, bites his teeth together. Gain back the control. Breathe. With your stomach. You know this, you’ve got this, you do it every week on the pitch. Calm down. Don’t just assume the worst. He’s alive. He’s well. He’s over at his parents’. He just forgot his phone.

Somewhat convinced by his own mantra, Manuel figures that he might as well take that shower now, calm his nerves. Everything always looks a tad brighter after a few quiet minutes under the warm spray.

_He’s alive. He’s well. He’s at his parents’. He forgot his phone._

Over and over, Manuel repeats the words in his own head as the warm water massages his tense shoulders. Kevin is fine, he has to be.

And then, when he’s lost track of how long he’s been standing there, he perceives a distant shrilling, buzzing sound. It still takes him a second or two extra to realise that it’s his phone ringing. _That sure took you long enough, you bastard._

Quickly, he turns off the shower, reaches for a towel and rushes back into the living room, still dripping wet, finding his phone with the screen up, showing a very recent notification.

Please. Please, let it be. Let it be Kevin. Everyone else is irrelevant. Just Kevin. Just Kevin…

It’s not.

It’s Pia.

Heart beating so hard it’s threatening to choke him, he grabs the phone, and calls her back without listening to her voice message. She picks up on the first ring.

“Manuel…”

“How is he.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard…”

“I have. It’s Kevin, isn’t it.”

Pia pauses, sighs heavily. “Yes. He–”

“He’s not dead.” He isn’t, he can’t be, Manuel would’ve known. Felt.

“No. But Manu, it’s very critical. They’ve done so much already, but they’re not sure if it’s going to be enough. He might,” – she takes a deep breath, fights back a sob – “They just don’t know if there’s anything more they can do. He’s still unconscious, they haven’t been able to make contact with him. If they don’t soon…”

“I need to be there.”

“I know.”

“But I’m supposed to be…”

No. Screw that, a few safe matches with the national team mean nothing in a situation like this. Surely, Jogi and the others will understand that. He’ll just take whatever punishment he gets; as long as he gets to be there with Kevin now, it’ll be worth it.

“I’m on my way,” he tells Pia. “Keep me updated on any major changes.”

“Of course. But please, drive safely, Manu. I couldn’t bear to–”

“I will.”

With that, he hangs up. There’s nothing more to be said. On his way back to the bathroom he dries himself off with the towel, just to get the worst out of the way, and reaches for a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt lying about. In the bedroom, over the backrest of a chair, hangs the hoodie Kevin forgot (left on purpose) last time he was visiting, and Manuel slips it on. It still smells like him. It’s a good thing Kevin likes his hoodies loose, so that they fit Manuel comfortably enough as well.

He can’t remember if he’s already packed everything or if there’s something he still needs, but it doesn’t matter. He has most necessities at Kevin’s anyway.

In a hurry, he grabs the half-packed suitcase, slips into his shoes, reaches for his jacket, phone, wallet and keys, and is out the door only a few minutes after he hung up on Pia. He almost forgets to lock the door, even.

His hands are shaking on the steering wheel, but he keeps Pia’s words and her voice in his head, repeating them to himself over and over like a spell to stay out of trouble. When he’s finally out of Munich, heading north on the Autobahn, he feels calm and stable enough to let the steering wheel go with one hand and reach for his phone in the passenger seat.

Jogi picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” His voice sounds rough.

“Sorry to wake you, coach.” – “Manuel?” – “I can’t be there tomorrow. Someone very dear to me…” Is what, exactly? In the hospital? Critically injured? Dying? “Tell Marc and Bernd I said hi, and that they better not mess up.”

He hangs up after that. Doesn’t want to discuss this with Jogi, doesn’t want to explain or defend himself. Jogi will know tomorrow, at the latest, that a former national team player has been in an accident. Whether he makes the connection… Well, Manuel’s got bigger worries now. Everything else can be dealt with once he has his Kevin back, safe and sound and awake.

★

He arrives in Dortmund very early in the morning, after having chosen a different road into the city to avoid the still closed road in the south. Pia texted him the address to the hospital on the way, and she’s waiting for him outside the main entrance when he’s parked the car. She looks tired, worn, scared, worried, but there’s a glimpse, albeit tiny, of hope in her eyes as well. Or maybe it’s just the lack of devastation.

Either way, it’s enough for Manuel to know that Kevin’s still alive.

She pulls him close and just holds him for a moment, not saying anything.

“How is he?” Manuel asks as they enter the building.

“Nothing new since last we talked. Still very unstable.”

“Will they let me come inside?”

“I’ll convince them, tell them you’re family. If we’re lucky, they’ll listen without asking too many questions, but keep your wallet ready. You never know.”

Bribing people with money, especially in a hospital, is not something that’s high up on Manuel’s bucket list. But if he’s not allowed to see Kevin otherwise…

They take the lift up to the right floor, and almost the second they step out, a young nurse spots them and rushes over.

“I’m sorry, but outside of visiting hours, it’s family–”

Pia grabs Manuel’s wrist and looks the nurse dead in the eye. “Family only, we know. He _is_ family, and he needs to be here.”

The nurse opens her mouth to protest, but can’t take her eyes off Pia’s desperate and pleading but determined ones, the ones of a mother who’s about to lose her son. The nurse shakes her head quickly as if to clear it, and looks up at Manuel. She recognises him, he’s sure. And if this wasn’t Kevin, he’d feel ashamed standing here with eyes red and swollen from the tears he couldn’t fight back on the way up here, fresh tears still welling up regularly, dried ones on his cheeks, and lips trembling even though he tries to press them together to keep them still.

She backs down then, nodding curtly.

“No one else. Keep a low profile,” she whispers, eyes him one last time, as if to assure herself that her eyes aren’t deceiving her, then she hurries in the opposite direction before anyone can accuse her of anything. It’s a good thing she has a duty to maintain confidentiality. Pia tightens her grip on Manuel’s wrist and pulls him along with her.

Martin’s the only one waiting for them in the corridor.

“Lenny’s with his cousins,” Pia says quickly, as if she knew he was about to ask. Probably for the best that he’s there and can get a good night’s sleep, instead of being here, in this cold, sterile environment, Manuel figures. If he can get any sleep at all. If it had been him in Lenny’s shoes and Marcel had ended up in a severe accident…

Martin gets to his feet to pull him into a close hug, and the gesture alone is almost enough to make the tears spill all over again. God, how awful it must be for them, their own son–

“I’ll get you a coffee,” Martin says, voice rough and low, and pats his shoulder. Manuel nods in acknowledgement and sits down beside Pia, bending forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and buries his face in his hands. Fighting, fighting, _fighting_ back the tears.

It doesn’t keep him from losing it the moment he feels Pia’s hand on his back, stroking up and down in a calm, soothing manner.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t been a better boyf–” he chokes out, the words muffled by the hand he’s pressing over his mouth. Pia puts her arm around his shoulders and pulls him to her.

“Don’t think like that. Marriage is hard, relationships are hard, hell, even _friendships_ are hard.”

“I’ve been so scared, though. Paranoid. That people and the press would find out, that it would affect our careers, _my_ career, and now. I might–”

“Hey. You’re not common students, teachers, gardeners, mechanics. You’re public persons. You’ve been right to protect your privacy and personal life. Who knows what would’ve happened to you, both of you, if it came out. Kevin knows that just as well as you do. Don’t you dare question your actions, Manuel. Do you hear me?”

Rationally, he knows she’s right, and he knows they’ve done the right thing, but in a situation like this, it doesn’t feel relevant. Not when he can lose Kevin at the age of thirty. Not when he can lose Kevin before they’ve lived a proper life together.

★

They sit in the corridor for hours, all three of them staring blankly in front of themselves. Occasionally one of them gets up to fetch something to drink for them all, but that’s about it. Manuel’s not really able to eat or drink anyway, nor does he want to; all his energy and attention is directed elsewhere.

And then, finally, when he’s miraculously still awake, another young nurse – Stefanie, according to her badge – comes to see them. Kevin’s awake. He’s not stable, but stable enough to accept visitors, one at the time, if they keep it calm and quiet and don’t rile him up.

Martin goes first, following closely behind Stefanie, and Pia reaches for Manuel’s hand while they wait for him to come back.

“Do you want to go next?”

“You’re his mother.”

Pia opens her mouth, probably to say _but you’re his boyfriend_ , so he holds up a hand to stop her. “Please don’t put me before you. There’ll be enough time for all three of us, there’s no rush.”

She accepts that, with the promise that she’ll be quick so that he won’t have to wait so long.

“How is he?” Manuel asks when Martin’s come back and Pia’s taken his place.

“Not good,” Martin says after a moment of consideration. “He’s awake, he can communicate, but… Broken bones, bruises, scars. Internal bleedings, but apparently, they’ve got them under control for now. But his right knee, his right leg–” Martin sighs heavily. “If he even makes it, he’s got one hell of a rehab ahead of him.”

“Oh, no.” Manuel leans his head back against the wall. “Will he ever be able to play again?”

“They didn’t say anything about it. I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

“Kevin’s never going to be happy again if he can’t play.”

“At this point, he should be happy if he survives.”

Manuel bites his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut, a suppressed sob making his body jerk. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he reaches up to cover it with his own until his breath has steadied.

“He asked for you, though. I told him you arrived some hours ago. That you drove straight from Munich when you heard.”

“Does he want to see me?”

“But of course he does. He’s probably waiting in anticipation already.”

As if on cue, Pia comes back out and signalises for Manuel to come over.

“Not much point in trying to get his attention when he already knows you’re here,” she says, winking at him even. “You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“I won’t. Thank you.”

Kevin’s surrounded by all kinds of machines and devices, all of them connected by tubes and wires in his hand, on his forearm, attached to his chest. An oxygen mask is covering his nose and mouth. Heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, respiratory rate – all the vital signs are being closely monitored, registering even the slightest hint of change.

“Oh, Kevin…”

A movement to his right reminds him that Stefanie is still present, currently busy washing her hands. She sends Manuel an encouraging smile when she notices him in the doorway.

“Just come on in. I have something I need to take care of, but I’ll be back shortly. Just press the button,” – she points to a red button on the wall – “if something happens, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t be shy – in his condition, anything can be critical.”

“Okay.”

Then, with another encouraging smile, she leaves the room. Manuel walks over to the bed and sits down on the chair next to it, reaching for Kevin’s left hand.

“Hey, Kev,” he whispers and runs his thumb soothingly over the back of the hand.

“Mah–‘u,” Kevin forces out with great effort, trying to reach for the oxygen mask to get it out of the way. Manuel reaches out to help him, figuring that a minute or two without can’t make much of a difference. Kevin sends him a tired smile and makes an attempt at squeezing his hand. “‘uh’re he’.”

“Of course I am, where else would I be?”

“The… team.”

“No, not when you’re lying here and need me. Not when I might never see you again, when you– God, Kev, I can’t, I.” He draws a deep breath, tries again. “I can’t lose you, I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“‘uh’re noh g-ohnna.” A hint of a grin spreads across Kevin’s features for a second, then it’s gone again. God, how Manuel wants to believe him.

He stands up, presses his forehead to Kevin’s, tears dripping from his eyes, landing on Kevin’s pale cheeks. Tear-wet, quivering lips brush dry, chapped ones. Kevin doesn’t have the strength to respond, but only when he starts to cough does Manuel pull away, worried that he’s not giving him enough room to breathe.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“‘oveh you t-hoo.”

“So, so much.”

“‘eah.”

Kevin coughs again, turning away to do it properly. His eyes seem drained and lifeless when he turns back around and tries to look at Manuel, struggling to keep them open. He gives up with a heavy sigh. There’s a weak tug at the corners of his mouth, but Manuel can’t tell if it’s an attempt at a smile or a grimace in pain.

“‘oh-n’t go.”

“I won’t.”

He helps Kevin put the oxygen mask back on, then he slips into bed next to him. When Stefanie comes back a short while later, Manuel’s already starting to doze off, his arm wrapped around Kevin, letting Kevin rest his head on his shoulder. He wants to stay awake, tries to stay awake, but after hours on the road, worry and exhaustion increasing by the minute, he just doesn’t have the strength to. There, pressed against his boyfriend, he falls into a deep sleep, and misses the moment when Kevin quietly, undramatically does the same.

★

When Manuel finally comes to himself, he has no idea how much time has passed since the hospital. He’s lying in Kevin’s bed, the one in his house this time, disoriented and alone, struggling to put together the pieces – how he got there, what happened, how it happened, which of his last experiences and memories are real and which are not.

_The voice on the radio. The long, exhausting drive. The hospital, the nurse, the endless waiting. Kevin’s strained voice and finally having Kevin in his arms again. Being woken abruptly, ripped away from him, pulled out of the room by people with white coats and strict faces. The endless, monotone beeping. The stressed, focused, urgent voices. Martin and Pia with tears in their eyes. Seeing him after, no life nor warmth nor strength left. The drive back home in the back of their car, the world around him wet and blurry. Falling onto the bed and curling himself into the sheets, burying his face in Kevin’s pillow. Insides being torn apart._

There’s only one thing he knows for sure, no matter how much he tries to find other explanations or excuses for it. The emptiness in his heart, bottomless and destructive, stressed by the fact that he’s lying cold and alone in Kevin’s bed in Kevin’s house in Dortmund, tells him everything he needs to know. He doesn’t need anyone to confirm it. He just knows, instinctively.

He really is alone now.


	2. The Funeral

Manuel drifts in and out of sleep the first day, spinning in a world of horrible nightmares where he’s always losing someone – sometimes in an absurdly unrealistic and dramatic situation, in which he’s trying everything in his power to save them but never succeeding; others are calm, quiet, but heartbreaking, resembling the reality a little too well. It starts out with Kevin, but when his subconsciousness has finally caught up with the fact that _he won’t be coming back_ , it starts playing around with his other loved ones – his mother, his brother, even his father, though they haven’t been in touch for a long while, Lenny, Benedikt. Thinking that every time it’s over, he’s awake, only to be caught in another world and another death.

The next time he comes to himself properly, lying on the opposite side of the bed, he’s exhausted and soaked in tears and sweat and blood, having scratched and dug his fingernails too deep into the palms of his hands and bit down too hard on his lips and tongue. Head pounding, eyes stinging, heart screaming.

He reaches for Kevin’s pillow and presses it to his face, biting into the material, trying but failing to hold back the sobs forcing themselves up his throat.

Suddenly, there’s a careful knock of the door, and he jerks himself upright.

“‘eah,” he rasps.

When his mother opens the door and steps inside, he realises with a pang that for a fracture of a second there, he actually thought it would be Kevin. That Kevin would come through the door, alive and breathing, asking him with a frown on his face what on earth he’s making such a noise for. And then, smugly, “You look like shit”, which Manuel would agree to for once.

“Mum–”

“Oh, Manuel,” she sighs, rushes over and sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand. She’s been crying; her eyes are red and he can hear the trace of tears in her voice. “Pia called me at work. I had heard of the accident but I didn’t, couldn’t believe her. I am _so_ sorry.”

She squeezes his hand and he nods weakly, then she pulls him to her, holds him close and does so for a long while.

“You don’t have to worry about Bayern, by the way,” she adds softly. “I’ve already spoken to them.”

Bayern. He hasn’t even thought about notifying them of his whereabouts.

“They received notice that you weren’t with the national team. I told them something had happened in the family and that you needed the time off. They weren’t counting on you this upcoming week anyway, so they didn’t protest much. They offered to blame it on a viral infection and I accepted it.”

“Thanks.” His voice sounds weak, lifeless, far away, and not like his own.

“Would you prefer to be alone?” She pulls back to study his face.

“Don’t know.”

“Okay.” She puts her arms around him again.

“I also called Marcel,” is the next thing she says, quieter this time. “Right after I talked to Pia. I realise now that I shouldn’t have, that it wasn’t mine to share.”

“’s fine.” Manuel pauses. “How did he react?”

His mum sighs heavily. “He… he’s very sorry, Manuel. He’ll come by as soon as he can.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you don’t want him to?”

“I do,” he says, realising just after that he does mean it. “I just wasn’t sure he’d want to come.” The last part comes out barely as a whisper. His mum reaches out and caresses his cheek, but other than that, she says nothing. Just as well, there’s not much to be said about it. This is between him and Marcel.

“By the way, your hands… Please, let me have a look at them.”

“Okay.”

“And you must be starving. I’ll cook you something after, yeah? It’s okay if you lack the appetite, but you should at least eat something.”

“Okay.”

About an hour later, when he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of soup in front of himself, well aware that his mother’s watching him with worried mum-eyes, the doorbell rings. She goes to open and he can hear from the hallway that it’s Marcel. He swallows thickly and pushes the bowl away. He has barely eaten anything, but he does lack all kind of appetite.

Marcel doesn’t speak when he enters the kitchen and their eyes meet, he just sits down wordlessly and rests a heavy hand on Manuel’s shoulder.

“I… don’t know what to say,” he finally says, voice low and emotionless.

“Then don’t say anything.”

Marcel nods and takes his hand away, and then they just sit there, staring in front of themselves while their mother cleans up after cooking.

At least until Marcel can’t hold back anymore.

“Look, I know it’s hard, but… You’ll get through it, Manu, I know you will. You always do. You’re strong, you’ve always been, and–”

“Maybe I don’t want to be strong anymore,” he cuts in.

“Maybe not right now, but you’ll get there. And then, maybe… I mean, it might be for the better, right? You’ve said it yourself that it’s always been a struggle, but now, in time, you can find yourself some cute girl, and–”

“Marcel!” their mother exclaims as she whirls around, and Manuel can’t believe his own ears, turning to stare at his brother.

“How can you even _say_ that?” he bursts out in pain and anger. “You don’t know a fucking thing! He died today, _today_ , Marcel, in my arms, while I was still there, right next to him, _right there_. Do you know what that feels like? Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like? How helpless, scared and small you become when there’s absolutely nothing you can do for that one person you _can’t_ be without? No, you bloody _don’t_. I loved him, _love_ him, and he was _taken_ from me, and–”

“Sorry, Manu, I’m just saying–”

“You don’t get to say _anything_ ,” he snaps, getting up from his chair and heading back to the bedroom. Curls back under the covers. Wishes with all his heart that Kevin could be there to hold him now, but he’s the one person who can’t.

When Marcel knocks on the door a while later, calling out a soft, regretful “Manu, I didn’t mean–”, Manuel just cuts him off with a sharp _go to hell_. A heavy sigh follows, a soft _thump_ against the door, then nothing.

★

He stays in Dortmund after that. Most of the time, he just lies alone in the bedroom, except in the evening, when it’s darkening outside and the hunger comes sneaking up on him. Then he walks over to Martin and Pia’s. Sometimes he ends up spending the whole evening there, keeping them and Lenny company, simply because he’s got nothing else to do. There’s nothing else he wants to do. There’s nothing to do, full stop.

He spends the nights lying awake for hours in the bed that still smells of Kevin, burying his face in Kevin’s pillow and just breathing in the welcome scent. Can feel Kevin’s warm lips against his own, his arms around his neck, his hands in his hair, his warm body wrapped all around him.

In sleep, Manuel hears his laugh, his breathless gasps, sees his face and smile and grin in high definition, feels his body flush against his own as they kiss and love and celebrate, senses his joy and happiness. Then, when he starts to wake up, there are always a few seconds of dozing where he can sense that he’s at Kevin’s, and his subconsciousness expects the press of lips against his own, a hand petting his hair, or a smack to his backside because Kevin thinks he’s been sleeping too long.

But then he’s pulled out of it, each time more brutal and heartbreaking than the last, to the warmth of the covers only. Every trace of Kevin gone, and the only thing lingering is the faint, fading scent on the sheets. Every morning, it hurts in his chest to wake up to that, cold and alone, with grief and loss and longing burning through his body. Every morning, the scent of Kevin seems to have faded just a little more, replaced by his own.

After some days, Kevin’s parents start dropping hints about the funeral. They’ve told him that he doesn’t have to take part in the planning and organising if he doesn’t want to, but they want to include him – if he feels up for it, that is. He’s not quite sure whether he does or not.

Family and friends will be there, as will probably many former teammates, coaches, teachers, people who’ve taken part in shaping Kevin’s life. The squads of the national team, Stuttgart and BVB too. It doesn’t take long for him to receive notice through the DFB that all national team players, those from the WC squad in particular, are encouraged to be there.

Thursday, 17th of November. That won’t interrupt the Bundesliga schedule, and it will also give the national team enough time to get back from the international break. They couldn’t cancel the matches for a former national team player, but there had been a minute of silence in the qualifier. Manuel’s actually surprised when Martin tells him so, but he appreciates it all the more. At least they did something; Kevin has, after all, been a part of their squad.

“I’ll probably sit with the team,” he tells Pia and Martin one evening, when they’re having another discussion.

“Why would you do that?” Pia asks, surprised. “You belong with us on the first bench.”

“Yeah, but…” Manuel trails off and looks away.

In the death notice in the paper, the names of the closest family members had been listed: Martin and Pia, then Lenny, then Manuel, followed by grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins. And at the end, ‘The squads of Borussia Dortmund, VfB Stuttgart and the German national team’. It was risky to have his name listed, but then again, that could’ve been any person with any relation to Kevin, and it’s not like he’s the only one bearing that name. And Kevin would’ve wanted him to have his name there.

But if he sits on the first bench in the church together with all of Kevin’s closest relatives, one doesn’t have to be a genius to do the math.

“Pia, don’t forget the focus he’ll receive if he does,” Martin reminds his wife, and Manuel sends him a weak, but grateful smile for understanding. “He’ll basically be outing himself.”

“Oh! Of course, sorry, Manuel. I just thought… I was worried you thought you weren’t welcome to sit with us.”

“Oh no, not at all. Don’t worry, I know I am. I’ll think about it.”

He looks from one to the other, and Martin nods.

“Of course. Take the time you need.”

“Kevin would’ve wanted you to sit with us, though,” Pia adds, ignoring her husband’s ‘Stop putting so much pressure on the poor lad already’.

“I know.”

★

Benedikt comes by one day. Which day it is, Manuel can’t tell – he’s completely lost the track of time. He only knows sleeping, dreaming, occasionally eating, and going to the bathroom. Maybe showering.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with the national team?” he asks his best friend, without getting up from the bed. Pia or Martin must’ve let him into the house, he assumes. He feels the mattress dip slightly as Benedikt sits down on the edge.

“I was. The international break is over.”

“Oh.” He should probably ask how it went, but he finds he doesn’t care, it doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t want to think about work, football, international breaks, international tournaments, the World Cup…

He presses his face to Kevin’s pillow, trying to force away the distant memory of their happiest time together. The memory that will never be the same again, the golden medal in his bedroom that will never bring him the happiness it once did. His eyes fall on the framed photographs on the nightstand – a few precious seconds of their celebration captured for eternity, black, red, gold waving between them. It stings in his chest. That beautiful, happy summer. Beautiful, happy Kevin.

“Came by to tell you that we’re coming tomorrow,” Benedikt says. “All of us, the whole team, including the Brazil one. We talked about it during the break and came to the conclusion that it was the only right thing to do. As if it was anything to discuss in the first place.”

Tomorrow. The funeral, probably. Must be.

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, Manu,” Benedikt sighs, placing his hand gently on Manuel’s shoulder.

There isn’t really much to respond to that. Manuel can feel Benedikt’s eyes on him and his hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks in a low voice, and out of the corner of his eye, Manuel sees his eyebrows furrow into a worried look.

Manuel shakes his head, and Benedikt nods slowly. His hand stays.

“Pia said I belong in the front row with them,” Manuel whispers then. His voice sounds rough and rasps in his throat. “Not in the back with the teammates and colleagues. But that would also mean outing myself to all of them. To everyone.”

Benedikt just looks at him for a long moment, weighing his words.

“I don’t want to tell you which to choose,” he begins, “but I don’t want you to regret your choice. Do what feels right for you and your relationship with Kevin, not what everyone else is going to think. If you need to say goodbye as a teammate, do that. If you need to say goodbye as his boyfriend, do that. Remember that to you, this isn’t about anyone but you and Kevin, about you having lost your partner and needing to say goodbye for the last time. And if other people can’t respect that… I know it’s hard for us in our profession to think this way, and especially in your case, but it really isn’t anyone’s business. This is, after all, a private, not a public event. No one has the right to gossip about what happens in the church, least of all write about it. Those who know why you’re up there will understand and not ask, and those who don’t will probably wonder, but they’ll show enough respect to keep their mouths shut and not make a big deal out of it.”

Benedikt’s response soothes him a little.

“Thanks.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Manu.”

Another long moment of silence follows. Benedikt starts fidgeting, not saying anything, only sighing occasionally. _He wants to be here for me, but he doesn’t know how._ Still without looking up, Manuel reaches for Benedikt’s hand, stilling his movements.

“I don’t want to talk, but can you stay? Just for a little while?”

“Of course.”

When Manuel scoots slightly to the side and looks up at his best friend, Benedikt takes the hint and gets into bed next to him, stretching out one arm in invitation. Without any further comment, Manuel curls up against his side, leans his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes.

But with Benedikt holding him so close, running a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his arm…

It all washes over him in an instant, so sudden, without any warnings, taking him by such surprise that he doesn’t get the chance to hold back.

“I should’ve been better,” he sobs and hides his face against Benedikt’s shoulder, curling his hands into the soft material of Benedikt’s t-shirt. “I should’ve, should’ve…”

“Don’t say that,” Benedikt whispers, tightening his hold on him. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”

A heavy, shaky breath.

“I just… I miss him so much. His laughter, his smile, his eyes, all his weird little mannerisms, his constant teasing. He could make me so angry at times, knew just which buttons he had to push, and still it didn’t change anything, not a single thing. He was everything to me and God, how I love him and now I need, _need_ him here, but he’s… He’s…”

He chokes on a sob and can’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“I know, Manuel.” A soft press of lips to his temple. “I know.” 

That’s the last thing he hears before he blocks out everything, succumbs to the pain, and cries into his best friend’s shoulder.

★

“I forgot to tell you, but Kevin’s mum told me that dinner would soon be ready,” Benedikt says later, when Manuel has finally calmed down and Benedikt himself needs to get home to Gelsenkirchen.

Manuel nods, hoping that they’ve saved some for him. Now that he’s out of bed, exhausted and empty but relieved to be rid of a few tears, he can feel the hunger creeping up on him.

They leave the house together; Benedikt gives him one last hug and gets into his car, and Manuel goes straight to Kevin’s parents’ part of the house. He’s been here for so many days now that he’s stopped using the doorbell when the door is unlocked.

As he takes off his shoes and puts them neatly to the side, he notices a few unknown pairs in the hallway. Simultaneously, the sound of voices reach his ears, a few of them only vaguely familiar.

“… What about Manuel?” is the first thing he perceives as he steps into the kitchen, and everyone around the table silence and look up at him in turn – Martin and Pia, as well as Kevin’s uncle, aunt, and cousin Marcel. If Manuel remembers correctly, the amateur footballer is only some months older than himself.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks and remains standing in the doorway.

“We were just discussing the funeral,” Pia informs him, and gets to her feet. “Please, sit. You must be hungry. I’ll warm you the leftovers from dinner.”

Manuel’s about to thank her for the offer when his eyes meet Marcel’s. He’s only Kevin’s cousin, but still bears more resemblance to him than Martin, Pia, and Lenny combined. Even the look in his eyes, the very soul in them – suddenly it hits Manuel like a punch in the gut and he needs to turn away. It’s not like he hasn’t met Marcel before, but so unexpected, so sudden, when Kevin’s not… anymore, it hits too close to home, and way too soon.

“I’m sorry, Pia, I– I just–” he starts stuttering, gesturing towards the doorway when she sends him a puzzled look. “I gotta–”

Then he just gives up explaining altogether and leaves the room.

He wishes he could go outside and hide on the veranda, but it’s mid-November and too cold for that. He doesn’t want to risk missing work for yet another week due to illness. Not that he’s particularly excited about going back, he’d rather just stay here for as long as possible and feel the little of what’s left of Kevin’s presence, but Bayern aren’t going to be very happy with him if he doesn’t come back soon, now that the international break is over and they’re counting on him.

He settles for the far end of the living room instead, curling up on the sofa and looking out into the cold, lifeless, already darkening afternoon. The last time he sat here like this was with Kevin almost a year ago, on Christmas Day, curled up against each other, dozing off, cuddling, hoping for snowflakes but ending up just glaring at the rain.

He doesn’t take his eyes off it before he senses someone approaching a while later.

“Hey,” Marcel says softly and out of the corner of his eye, Manuel can see him gesture towards the chair closest to the sofa. “Mind if I…?”

Manuel shakes his head but keeps his gaze fixed on the garden, not able to look Kevin’s cousin in the eye. That resemblance…

“You okay?” Marcel asks when he’s made himself comfortable.

“Yeah, I just… You look–” A deep, heavy breath. “Sorry. You just look so much alike.”

Marcel lets out an emotionless chuckle. “Yeah. We got that a lot.”

They sit there in silence, both of them just looking out the window. Apart from the wind ruffling a few trees, which have already lost their leaves, there’s no movement to be seen.

“Fuck, everything about this is so messed up,” Marcel swears at one point. It takes Manuel by surprise, because no one has dared to voice that out loud in his presence yet – how _messed up_ and _wrong_ this is, that they’ve lost Kevin at this young age, by more or less pure coincidence. Swallowing, he looks in Marcel’s direction and sharpens his ears.

“Can’t begin to imagine what it must be like for you, but he was like a little brother to me. Our parents were all so young and waited ages before they got the rest of the gang, so it was just the two of us for years. All the shit we got ourselves into, which didn’t matter back then. It was boyish pranks, nothing more. Got away with most of them, didn’t lead to any consequences worth mentioning, even.”

Marcel chuckles quietly to himself, and Manuel feels a smile starting to form at the corners of his mouth.

“There was this one time… Early autumn, I had just turned twelve, he was nine, and sleeping over at ours because uncle Martin and aunt Pia were away for some reason. A mate of mine next door had this great idea that throwing eggs at cars was a genius idea, so we climbed up on the roof of the house at the end of the street, armed with a full package of eggs, ready to egg every car passing by. The darkness provided us with enough shelter, so it was impossible to bust us. Or, so we thought.”

He pauses briefly and glances in Manuel’s direction, as if to check if there’s any point continuing.

“We missed almost every car. Either they were driving too fast, or we miscalculated the throw so that we only hit the side of a tyre or the very back of the car. Anyway, we decided to egg the roofs of the other houses instead. The first one was easy, then it got harder and harder to throw far enough. And then, all of a sudden, the door to one of the houses opened and out came a man, majorly pissed-off and holding a flashlight. We ducked, made ourselves as flat as possible; I nearly shat myself and Kevin was trembling, clinging to my arm. The man’s flashlight swiped everywhere, we could almost feel it on us, but the angle made it hard for him to see anything. As soon as he left his doorstep and started swiping in the opposite direction, we rushed down from the roof, leaving the eggs behind, and took a detour through the parallel neighbourhood to get home. We managed just in time to sneak back inside and go back to our Legos before my parents noticed that we had been gone, and when the man rang the doorbell a few minutes later, they assured him that no, we had been there all evening.”

Marcel chuckles quietly again and another smile tugs at Manuel’s lips. Marcel doesn’t miss it, though, and returns it as he studies him.

“Did you know I was the first he told when he realised he was gay?” he says then, taking Manuel by surprise with the sudden change of topic, but not stopping to wait for a response. “I had known for a long time already, though. Not sure why, I just knew, I think. Those subtle little hints that your subconsciousness picks up on, you know? That he didn’t react like the boys in my class when I wanted to talk about girls, or that he never brought up the topic himself. Not sure it was _that_ exactly, because I can’t pinpoint any moments, but it must’ve been something along those lines. Just little stuff, but enough for me to realise that hm, maybe my little cousin isn’t playing for quite the same team as I am after all.”

“How old was he when he told you?”

“Must’ve been seventeen? Maybe even eighteen, it did take him a while. Never seen him that scared and nervous in my life, though. And I, insensitive as I was, just looked at him and went, ‘You didn’t _know_?!’. I could’ve, and probably should’ve, been nicer about it right in that moment, but given that he looked about to pass out, I honestly thought he was going to say that he had murdered some Schalker and needed help burying the body. Anyway, he looked pretty shocked then. Because I wasn’t angry or whatever it was that he had been expecting.”

“Probably not as shocked as you were when he brought home a Schalker instead.”

Marcel bursts out laughing at that. “Yeah, now that was the actual surprise here! Can’t remember which was worse, though – the fact that it was _you_ , of all people, or that you two had had this thing going on for years already. I was so used to Kevin sharing more or less everything with me, and suddenly, there was this _huge_ part of his life that I didn’t even know about. Weird. Didn’t know if I should feel pissed or hurt or both or nothing.”

Manuel sends him a crooked smile. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Nah, it’s fine. After the first shock had cooled off, I did get why he had kept it a secret. Bet your brother didn’t react any different, either.”

Manuel looks down at his hands. “He didn’t know a thing until mum finally had had enough,” he admits. “And then she told me that if I didn’t tell him myself, she would. He stared at me for a good while, and after a long round of ‘are you sure you’re not joking?’ and ‘is it April the first today?’, all he could bring out was, ‘what the _hell_ , Manu’. And he doesn’t swear.” He pauses, grows quieter. “I don’t know, though. I’ve always had an inkling that it didn’t really have that much to do with Kevin being from Dortmund.”

“What then?”

Manuel shrugs. “You know. Gender.”

Marcel’s eyes widen in surprise. “He didn’t even know you’re gay?”

“Uhm, I’m… not. Bisexual at most, leaning mainly towards girls, even.”

“Huh. Okay.” Marcel grows silent for a second, then he shrugs it off. “Love is a funny thing, I guess.”

“… Yeah.”

“But you hadn’t told him? Your own brother?” 

“Didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with him, to be honest. He studied Theology of all things, and I fear our father managed to print some outdated views into him before he and Mum got divorced. Besides, I didn’t have that much to tell him before this thing with Kevin started.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was only then that I realised that I could be into guys as well.”

“Are you kidding? And here I thought Kevin was late! How old were you?”

“Twenty-three.” Manuel pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth. “And then it took me another two years and Kevin’s persuasion to make me realise it and admit it to myself.”

“Shit,” Marcel grins, leaning back in his chair. “Must’ve boosted his ego pretty hard to know that he turned Schalke’s golden boy.”

Manuel cringes in his seat, feeling an uncomfortable blush starting to spread over his cheeks and up to his ears. “God, it sounds so awful when you put it like that…”

Marcel’s grin turns into a frown. “Do you still have a problem with it?”

Manuel swallows and looks away, staring pointedly out the window. Then a soft whisper, more to himself than to Marcel, “Footballers aren’t supposed to…”

He can sense Marcel staring at him, but then he too looks away, following Manuel’s gaze out the window.

“Anyway…” Marcel continues after a long moment of silence, having picked up that this isn’t something Manuel feels very comfortable talking about. “Sorry for having to bring this up now, but that’s the reason my parents and I are over in the first place. We were discussing the funeral just before you came in. Who should carry the coffin, among other things. Not that we’re short of people to ask, but I was thinking that if you want to, we should prioritise you.”

Manuel turns around, gaping at him. “But. I can’t. People – there’ll be talk. The press.”

“No, there won’t. Not if you don’t want to. All we need is for Pia and Martin to make a quick call to Löw or Bierhoff, and no one will question it. Only fair that the football will be represented in one way or another, given how much it meant to Kevin, and who’s better suited for the job than a fellow world champion, the captain of the national team? Kevin’s boyfriend or not, you’re better qualified than anyone else in the troop. Apart from a BVB player perhaps, but hey, everyone has their flaws. It will also explain why you’re sitting with us on the front bench in church.”

It’s a lot to process at once. Does he even _want_ to carry the coffin out of the church, be one of those who’ll lower Kevin down into the dark, cold ground? It’s so brutal and raw and final and… Manuel wraps his arms around himself and looks away.

“It’s– it’s very sudden. Can I think about it?”

“Sure. Just let the others know in time. You’re allowed to say no of course, I just thought you should know that you have the chance, if you feel up for it.”

“That’s very considerate of you, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

★

And then comes the day of the funeral. Marita and Marcel come over to Dortmund very early in the morning while he’s still in the shower to bring him his suit, tie and shoes. He holds back when he sees them, not sure what to expect anymore, but the second Marcel sees _him_ , he comes rushing over. Before Manuel can react in any way, he’s been pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“I am so sorry, Manu,” his brother says, refusing to let go, his voice upset in a way Manuel’s never heard it before. “For everything, for every single word. I thought you needed the encouraging speech when you needed the comforting one and I didn’t think it through. I can’t even remember what kind of point I was trying to make, but I said the completely wrong thing and I know it. And boy, do I regret it. You had, and still have, absolutely every right to be angry with me.”

He places his hands on Manuel’s shoulders then and as their eyes lock, Manuel can see that Marcel’s are indeed full of regret. His brother takes a deep breath before he continues.

“And I don’t care whether you’re straight or gay or bi or whatever exists in between. It makes no difference, you’re still my little brother. And you’re right to think that I haven’t been the supportive big brother you’ve needed in the past, because I know all too well that I haven’t been, but as long as you find a way, _any_ way to be happy again… I don’t care what way it is. I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t _fucking_ matter.”

Manuel looks down and nods slowly. He doesn’t trust his voice. Forgiveness takes time, but he does believe and appreciate the words. With a tiny hint of a smile in response, he straightens up to accept the clothes his mum’s holding out to him. Only then does he notice that both Marcel and their mother is dressed up nicely in dark clothing.

“What are you…?” he stutters, gesturing.

“We’re coming with you, of course,” his mum says. “Martin told me you’ll be sitting in the front with them, and that’s okay. We’ll be a bit further in the back.”

And despite everything, Manuel’s grateful that they’ll be there. Both of them.

He goes to get dressed and for a brief moment, he has to look himself in the mirror as he adjusts his tie. He hasn’t been able to look himself in the eye since it all happened, and hell, he looks worse than he thought. Eyes lifeless, empty and seemingly permanently red, his skin pale and his lips sore and swollen. So much for wanting to be discreet about the whole thing. No one’s going to believe that they only spent a month of fun in Brazil together when he looks like this.

He bends down and splashes some cold water in his face, rubbing the rest of sleep and dried tears out of his eyes. Claps his clean-shaven cheeks and jaw hard to bring more life and colour to them. None of it seems to have any effect. In the end, he just gives up altogether. It’s not like it he’ll stop crying and mourning from now on.

Then they leave for the church. Coming into the large, still empty room makes Manuel feel out of place. It’s so quiet and calm, but in the front, around the coffin, the floor is covered in dozens of funeral wreaths in all kinds of colours – with yellow as the most dominant one. Manuel doesn’t have one of his own, he’s with the national team’s.

He sits down next to Lenny. When the rest of Kevin’s closest family arrives, Marcel pulls him into a close hug after having greeted Martin, Pia and Lenny, and takes place next to him.

“I take it you’ll carry the coffin with us, then?” he asks gently, and Manuel nods.

“Yeah. It wouldn’t feel right not to do it.”

Marcel puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. Then they just sit in silence and wait for it all to start.

Klopp’s there to say a few words about Kevin’s time at BVB, as is Michael Meusch on behalf of Stuttgart, and one of the coaches Kevin had back at Rot-Weiß Ahlen. They all read up their funeral wreaths after their speeches; a thank you for what Kevin’s meant to the respective clubs, signed with ‘your teammates, colleagues, and friends at VfB Stuttgart’, ‘Rot-Weiß Ahlen, on behalf of your teammates and coaches from your youth carrier’, and ‘your friends and family at Borussia Dortmund’.

A fan representing all of Borussia Dortmund’s fan clubs is also there. He’s dressed in an ordinary, dark suit and a white shirt like most of the men, but instead of a tie, he has his black and yellow fan scarf tied loosely around his neck. A welcome touch of home in the midst of all this stiffness.

‘Rest in peace, our Fisch, our Dortmunder Jung, our friend from the stands. The Süd will never stop singing your name’ it says on the ribbon on the funeral wreath he reads up, and Manuel nearly loses it. By sheer reflex, he presses a hand to his mouth and forces back a sob. Oh, how much it would’ve meant to Kevin to hear those words. To know that the Süd still appreciates him, that they haven’t forgotten him, that he’s still one of them.

A small hand brushing his own brings him out of it. He glances to his left, where Lenny’s staring up at him with his innocent child eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just kind of asks with his eyes if Manuel’s okay. Manuel gives him a weak smile for trying and closes his big left hand around Lenny’s small right.

Then it’s Oliver’s turn. He talks mostly about the time in Brazil, a few memorable moments with Kevin involved, his closeness to and unique understanding for the fans, equal to no other player in the team. How much his contributions mattered throughout that month, even though his worth couldn’t be measured in playtime on the pitch. When he’s done, he walks over to the national team’s funeral wreath; a rich green covered mostly in bright white flowers, with a dash of red, a tiny hint of pink, and a golden ribbon with white printing – colours to resemble their World Cup jerseys.

“Thank you for an unforgettable, magical summer in Brazil. May you rest in peace and play among the stars for eternity,” Oliver reads from it, taking a pause for effect before continuing; unlike the funeral wreaths from the clubs, this one has names listed on it. His eyes meet Manuel’s for a brief second then, a look full of pity, sorrow, and sympathy. They’ve been here before, almost precisely seven years ago, at the funeral of his fellow goalkeeper and national team colleague, Robert Enke. Oh, how they had hoped back then that they wouldn’t lose another teammate so early.

Oliver takes a deep breath and reads the names of the players, printed on the ribbon in the order of their shirt numbers, followed by the coaches and crew. How well it fits, Manuel thinks, that he has the number one. And how wrong it feels to not hear Kevin’s name after his own.

“Manuel, Matthias, Benedikt, Mats, Sami, Bastian…”

Manuel blocks it out after that. He already knows the names and the list by heart.

★

Marcel gives him a discreet pat on the back as they get up to carry the coffin. Kevin’s parents in the front, two uncles in the back, himself and Marcel in the middle. Lenny’s walking right behind them with his grandparents, followed by the rest of his uncles, aunts and cousins.

It’s only now that Manuel realises how many have come to the church today – the benches are all full and people are standing around them, packed together in large crowds, trying to make everyone fit inside. Manuel swallows and keeps his gaze directed right in front of himself, focusing on Pia’s hair, not particularly keen on meeting anyone’s eyes on the way out.

The whole thing is just very surreal. That they’re walking there in the middle, with Kevin between them. That Kevin’s _in_ that coffin. The thought hasn’t occurred to him before now. It’s all just been very abstract, far away. He hasn’t even thought about where they may have kept Kevin’s body. And now… It gets very real very fast, and suddenly there are tears welling up in his eyes again, fighting to get out.

No. Not now. This is not the time, not among all these people. When he’s back in their bed, alone, yes, but not here. Drawing a deep breath, he focuses on keeping the tempo of the others and not stepping on Pia’s heels. This is just like the most important matches on the pitch, and everyone’s relying on him. Deep breaths, don’t think, stay calm. Pia’s done her hair particularly nice today.

The rest of the church follows behind them as they head for the prepared grave.

Thankfully, only the four in every corner need to actually lower the coffin. He and Marcel stand next to each other as they do so, and, after having shook hands and patted each other on the back, Manuel goes to stand with the team, taking place next to Jogi. People are coming up to Martin, Pia, and Lenny to offer their condolences, and he doesn’t want to be in the way. It feels safer, more natural, to stand with the people he officially belongs with, with his colleagues and friends, not having to deal with anyone. Most acquaintances, distant relatives, and friends of the family didn’t even know of his and Kevin’s relationship.

Jogi puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

“This is getting to you, isn’t it?” he asks quietly, so that none of the others can hear it.

Manuel swallows. “So it would to you if it was your wife.”

He hasn’t thought it through, but the response comes to him as naturally as anything. He simply doesn’t have the energy nor the strength to lie to the coach right now. The majority of the players already know, and sooner or later, one way or another, Jogi will probably find out as well. Better to have it come from him then, than the slip of another player’s tongue.

Jogi nods to himself.

“I suspected as much.”

Manuel turns to look at him, very much surprised by the words, and Jogi continues, “In Brazil… Well, I just had an inkling. Not that it makes any difference. I’m very sorry for your loss, Manu.”

Jogi’s eyes meet his and Manuel needs to look away. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down at his shoes, nodding slightly. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad it could be arranged for you to carry the coffin with the rest of his family.”

Manuel nods again.

“Please, take as much time off as you need. Let me know when you feel ready to come back to the national team, I won’t call you up until I know that you are. And don’t let Bayern pressure you into anything, you’re allowed to take some leave for a while, even though you’re one of their key players and they’ll try to convince you that you don’t have a choice. If they try to go dirty, just let me know and I’ll handle it personally.”

The speech takes Manuel by surprise, even more so than the fact that Jogi knew. He hadn’t expected the coach to be this open, supportive and accepting, and certainly not this engaged.

“It’s the least I can do,” Jogi adds when he sees the look on his face.

“Thank you, coach.” Something which feels like a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and for the first time since the accident, he senses a glimpse of hope. “I really appreciate that.”


	3. The Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get to the last chapter, I just want to thank you all for your beautiful, emotional feedback so far. I don’t know how to express my gratitude without being superficial, but I never expected this and I am so very touched by your comments. You’ve made all the pain of writing this story worth it and I want to give you all a big hug for inflicting this on you.

Manuel tightens the white and royal blue scarf around his neck and shoves his hands back into his pockets. It’s getting darker by the day now. His nose is cold, he can feel the roses in his cheeks, and frosty smoke dances in front of his face when he exhales. Usually when he’s out walking or running he prefers listening to music, but he doesn’t feel like listening to anything on the way to where he’s headed today.

Visiting Kevin.

It’s been too long since the last time he had the chance.

There are people surrounding the grave when he arrives. Fans, going by the scarfs around their necks. Even though it doesn’t feel right to see a group of complete strangers there – he’d never visit the grave of someone he didn’t know personally –, he can understand why they’re there today. He waits until they’ve left, then he steps out of the shadows and hurries towards the grave before anyone else can come before him.

“Hey, Kev,” he greets, his voice low and hushed.

He crouches down and just sits there in silence for a long time, watching the golden metal plate with Kevin’s name, reading the dates over and over. It feels so wrong to see two dates with so few years between them. Twenty-eight is a too young age to die.

Most of his visits here have passed in silence. Today, however, he has a lot on his mind.

“I miss you,” he whispers eventually. “Every day, every second. When I wake up and can’t feel you in my arms, when I get home from training and can’t call you to hear how your day has been, when I’m with the national team and can’t help but think that our World Cup squad isn’t complete anymore. I don’t even have the holidays to look forward to, because we can’t go anywhere together.”

He sighs and produces a small, plain candle from his jacket pocket, and a lighter from the other.

“And everything reminds me of you, every single little thing,” he continues as he lights the candle and places it carefully in front of the dark stone. It illuminates the gold in a warm glow in the otherwise so cold, colourless surroundings. “Everything that has to do with Schalke, Dortmund, derbies… Even football itself, because you loved it so much. I have to admit that it makes it hard to play sometimes. I couldn’t even play our matches against BVB last season. The first one was straight after your funeral, the others… Well. It was just too close still. About a month ago, I tried for the first time since the funeral and I had to ask the coach to sub me off at halftime. He wasn’t very happy about that, but I couldn’t go through with it. BVB won in the end and I didn’t care. I didn’t even mind.”

A breath of cold wind swipes over the graveyard and the candle flickers briefly.

“I can’t help but wonder what you would’ve done in the same situation. If you would’ve kept going, if you would’ve helped BVB beat Bayern. I think you would. I may be ambitious, but you were passionate. I thought I were too but no, not like that. You were passionate in ways I didn’t even understand, about everything you did, everything you stood for. And people gave you shit for it and you kept doing your thing anyway. I admired that about you. Loved it, even. I truly did, even though I probably gave you the impression that I didn’t. That I found it unnecessary and out of place, maybe even stupid at times. I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t like all the negative attention you received. I was worried that you sometimes gave them too simple reasons to pick on you and I hated witnessing that without being able to do anything about it or speak out against it.”

A sad, melancholic smile creeps over his lips and he reaches out, running his fingertips along the letters of Kevin’s name. Wishes so badly that it didn’t feel like cold metal, but warm, soft skin, that Kevin would lean into his touch and return it, reach out, grab his hand, squeeze it.

“You’d probably ask why I’m here on a Friday afternoon. I came back from international break a couple of days ago, and Bayern were nice enough to give me this particular weekend off to visit my family. I’m going to Mum’s tomorrow, but I’ve already seen Lenny and your parents. We had dinner, and later we’re going to the match together, along with the rest of your family. I’m staying in your part of the house as always. They’ve kept it, don’t feel comfortable with putting it out for sale, I think. Maybe they never will, and I won’t object to that. I like having your place to stay at when I’m here. In a way, I consider it my place too. I hope you don’t mind.”

He clears his throat and loosens the knot on his scarf a little.

“Funny thing, though. One would think it was planned and maybe it was, but since the match day schedule is supposed to be totally random, I choose to believe that it’s just a freaky coincidence. Not that it matters. Maybe some fans have told you already, but it’s derby day today, here in Dortmund, in your stadium. A year after we put you to rest, on the very same date. Can you imagine? There was a huge debate between the fans, the clubs and DFL when they published the schedule for this particular weekend. The Borussia fans are worried that the Schalkers will take advantage of it. DFL wouldn’t change it though, said it had to be like this because they have a policy of not changing a planned schedule. Match fixing and all that, you know. ‘The fans will just have to behave themselves,’ they said. I have to admit that I don’t know what to expect now. I can only hope that the majority will be respectful.”

He pauses for a moment. It’s been a tiring debate for too long and he just wants to get it all over with. No matter how the match goes, at least it’ll be over after tonight.

“I actually spoke to Benedikt about it. He didn’t know what to expect either. He was asked about you, about this whole situation at Schalke’s press conference yesterday. I think he handled it rather well. I think he said just the right thing to appeal to the Schalke fans, and coming from their captain, I hope it’ll have an impact.”

He knows Benedikt’s words almost by heart already. It was all over the media yesterday.

_He polarised, there’s no doubt about that_ , Benedikt had said. _Not only in the Ruhrgebiet, but all over Germany. As player and captain of Schalke, I understand that he was, and still is, a hated figure here, just like Christoph Metzelder and Gerald Asamoah are and always will be in Dortmund. But personally, I had the pleasure of getting to know Kevin in Brazil, and regardless of the image the media creates of someone, there’s a live and breathing human being behind it. Kevin was nothing like the media made him out to be, except that he loved his club and hated ours, but I think we can all agree that his attitude towards our club wasn’t unique for someone born and bred in Dortmund – he simply reflected the whole city. In some way or another, I think that’s something fans on both sides can appreciate. We’d rather have that than players who have no idea what the Revierderby is, what it means to our region. But trust me, even Kevin could set aside all his personal feelings for Schalke, its fans, and its players whenever it really mattered._

Benedikt had paused briefly after that, clearing his throat.

_As your captain, I’m know that I can’t ask everyone to do the same tomorrow, to set aside all personal feelings regarding Borussia Dortmund as a club and Kevin as a player. It’s not about lack of authority, it’s about knowing and understanding the club and the fans you play for. But I can hope, on behalf of Kevin’s friends and family, and for me personally as a friend and fellow World Cup winner, that everyone in the stadium tomorrow will show respect to those who had to say goodbye to a loved one a year ago. We have plenty of ways to insult and belittle those black and yellow bees from Lüdenscheid-Nord – there’s no need to stoop so low that we attack a still grieving family in the process. It’s football, it’s a derby, but we can still show how to keep it fair and civilised, and focus on what’s important._

“The Borussia fans will definitely honour you, though, you can be sure of that. The Süd has even planned a choreo. I haven’t seen it, I’ve just heard rumours, but I imagine it’ll be an epic one. At least I hope it’ll be an epic one, one that’ll do you justice. You’ve deserved it. I think the fans think so too.”

He pauses again, looking away, taking a few deep breaths.

“Speaking of the derby, though. I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually thinking about going back. You always wanted me to come back, wanted us to go back together, back to where it all started, to where we both belong. Should’ve listened to you, I know that. But who knows, maybe we wouldn’t have worked things out if I hadn’t left. And maybe we wouldn’t have had the summer in Brazil either. But I want to come home now, it doesn’t feel right being so far away from you anymore. I’m not sure if it’ll work out, but when my contract with Bayern runs out, I want to try. There’s not much left there for me anyway, not now that I’ve already achieved everything I could dream of. I’d rather spend the rest of my career here, so that I can be close to you again. Can come visit you more often. I haven’t been here as often as I want to, and I’d like to be able to come anytime I feel like it.”

He reaches out and traces his fingertips gently over Kevin’s name again.

“We’ll see what Bayern says, though. I doubt they’ll let me go easily, but Jogi’s proven to be a great ally. Helps me out and fixes things without even asking questions, but keeps his door open so I can come by whenever I need it. Did you know that he already knew about us? He wasn’t sure, he told me, but he started suspecting us in Brazil for some reason. Something about the familiarity between us, which couldn’t have been built in such a short time. Guess nothing slips by his keen eye. He just said ‘Well, I’m not a national team coach for no reason’ and winked at me when I pointed it out.” He chuckles quietly. “I’m glad he knows, though. And that he’s on my side of everything. At least I have someone high up in the system I can trust, and that means a lot to me. I’m not so sure anyone at Bayern would be as understanding.”

Not far away, there’s another group of fans approaching. They stop abruptly when they spot him. It’s hard to tell in the darkening evening, but one of them seems to frown, and the two others exchange confused looks. Manuel swallows, wondering what they’ll do next. He doesn’t want to feel pushed away from his own boyfriend’s grave.

But the fans keep their distance, slumping down on a bench nearby and waiting for their turn. Manuel decides to ignore their presence. Like Benedikt said before the funeral, something which he’s reminded himself of often ever since: This is about his relationship with Kevin, not anyone else’s. He has every right to be here.

“I still think about the World Cup from time to time. How happy you were, how happy _we_ were. That prank war with Mats and Benedikt. Your stupid prank on me. It was a good one, I have to give you that, I was just too jealous to see it. And the night of the final when I finally told you that I love you. I didn’t even think it through, it just slipped out of me without warning, and boy, was I nervous afterwards that you’d be pissed. That you’d take advantage, that you’d use it as leverage against me. Should’ve known you, trusted you enough to know that you wouldn’t. And then, when it was finally out in the open and you said it back, all I could think about was why I hadn’t done it sooner, because yes, it scared me, but the outcome made up for it. It’s not as if I didn’t have plenty of chances. That one and a half year before I left Schalke, but instead just ended everything. After I had come to Bayern and was missing you as hell. When we were finally reunited again. Every time we met after that. And still I didn’t, and sometimes, it bothers me. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry I kept you waiting for almost five years. You had deserved someone who told you from the beginning.”

He stops himself then. This isn’t what he wanted to talk about. He knows all too well that he can’t keep giving himself a hard time for needing time, but rather appreciate that he actually made it that far before it was too late. Appreciate that at least the last two years of their relationship were better than the previous five. It could’ve been a lot worse.

“But anyway, the point I was trying to make before I trailed off, was that I’ve been thinking about the World Cup a lot more often lately. You know, since we’re going to Russia next year. Another tournament, another desire to win, and to be honest, I’m not sure I can go through with it. I told you that I struggle playing against BVB and the same goes for the national team. I’ve felt it during every international break I’ve joined since you passed away, getting stronger and stronger by each time. Marc and Bernd have had to replace me on several occasions. I don’t wish to give up already, but I’m this close to calling Jogi and tell him that I can’t. A part of me wants to be there, of course, but when I have difficulties playing two simple matches, what’s a whole tournament going to be like? A tournament that will constantly remind me of you? A tournament in a homophobic country that wouldn’t have accepted us if we just happened to be born there?”

He ends the rhetorical question with a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. This is a decision he doesn’t want to make all on his own without discussing it with someone who understands, but Kevin isn’t there to do it with him. Kevin isn’t there to convince him to go and show those homophobic arseholes that you can be a world champion, the world’s best keeper, and still fall in love with other men. Kevin isn’t there to walk out on the pitch, play and win together with him.

Glancing at his watch then, he realises that if he wants to get to the stadium in time, he better get going soon.

“I haven’t decided yet, though. There’s still time. And I know that Jogi will be understanding, no matter what I choose.”

He pauses again, longer this time. Saying goodbye is always the hardest and he never knows how to do it. He doesn’t want Kevin to feel that he’s abandoning him. Doesn’t want to leave him all alone here in this gloomy place, without knowing when he’ll be able to come back.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go now,” he finally whispers. “I’m supposed to meet your family outside the stadium. I’ll be back again tomorrow though, Sunday at the latest. I’ll tell you everything about the match then, maybe also more about the national team, if you want to hear about it. I guess you don’t really, but I feel the need to talk to you about it, so you’ll just have to bear with me. In the meantime, you take care and don’t get yourself involved in too much mischief.”

He tightens the knot on his scarf again, then he bends forward and presses his cold lips to the even colder golden metal plate, right where Kevin’s name has been engraved. For a brief moment, it feels like Kevin’s kissing back. His lips almost get stuck to the frozen metal when he pulls away.

“I will never stop loving you,” he whispers as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the cold stone. It’s something he always does, and each time it kills him a little more that Kevin’s not there to whisper it back. Then he gets to his feet, fingers brushing the stone one last time.

He doesn’t bother pulling his scarf up to hide his face when he passes the fans. He doesn’t care anymore if he’s recognised.

✩

“You ready for this?” Martin asks and gives him a pat on the back when Manuel meets Kevin’s family outside the stadium. They’re all dressed the same – black and yellow scarfs and, underneath or on top of their warmer clothes, a BVB jersey with Kevin’s name and number on the back. Some of them are eyeing Manuel’s white and royal blue scarf with suspicion.

“Yeah.”

Marcel raises as eyebrow at him.

“Even at a match in Kevin’s honour you still have to cling to those ugly colours of yours.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shakes his head in a disapproving manner. But Manuel also recognises the glimpse in his eyes and chuckles; he’s come to know Marcel a lot better the past year, sharing memories of Kevin in the sort of positive, enthusiastic way that he hasn’t felt quite comfortable doing with anyone else. And, surprisingly but liberatingly, he’s found himself being open and honest about sexuality and homophobia in a way he’s never been able to be with anyone, not even with Kevin. Not even with himself.

“Once a Schalker, always a Schalker,” he winks at Marcel. “No Borusse will ever change that.”

“When not even Kevin could, I guess not.”

Normally, Kevin’s family would get standard tickets for the Yellow Wall, but they’ve been given seats on the VIP stand for this particular match. They all argued against it to begin with, but when the fan clubs revealed that they were planning a choreo in Kevin’s honour, something they wanted the whole family to be able to see, they gave in.

“You’re not worried people are gonna start asking questions because you sit with us, though?” Marcel asks, a little quieter now, on the way inside. “That you’re attending this match instead of playing Bayern’s tomorrow?”

Manuel considers for a moment, then he shrugs. “I lost Kevin way too soon, after having spent our entire relationship worrying that it would come out and affect me and my career. I owe it to Kevin not to waste my entire life on that. If someone finds out now that we were in a relationship, or that I’m bi, or both, so be it. Doesn’t really matter anymore.” _Not when I don’t have Kevin by my side._

Marcel sends him a long look, then he nods, reaching out to squeeze Manuel’s shoulder.

“Good for you, Manu,” he says with a warm, genuine smile on his face. “I’m proud of you.”

Manuel squeezes the hand on his shoulder in response. Marcel doesn’t need words to know that he appreciates it.

They all find their places, and just like at the funeral, Manuel takes place between Lenny and Marcel. The atmosphere is already pretty fired up; both the Yellow Wall and the away stands are starting to fill up with fans, who are eagerly chanting back and forth at each other. Manuel wonders what his old friends in the fan club would say if they knew not only that he’s here, but who exactly he’s sitting next to.

And then it’s finally time.

But as the teams walk in on the pitch, the fans don’t start singing ‘Heja BVB’ like they usually do. Instead, the whole Yellow Wall holds up pitch black sheets, turning it into a Black Wall, and – as an enormous yellow Dortmund jersey is slowly pulled on top of that, revealing the back with _Großkreutz, 19, Dortmund_ – they start chanting ‘Dortmunder Jungs, Dortmunder Jungs, wir sind alle Dortmunder Jungs’.

The Schalke fans try their best to match the sound volume, but drown in the deafening singing as the whole stadium joins in, the song resounding between the stands. Nearly eighty thousand people singing the one fan song that was meant for Kevin and Kevin alone.

Manuel slips his hands underneath his jacket, finds the hem of his jersey and curls his fingers into the smooth material. Oh God, how much it would’ve meant to Kevin to see this, to hear this, to experience this, after all he did for the club and after everything he went through. Manuel sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it, forcing back a whimper. Somehow, he doesn’t care how, he hopes that Kevin can sense this. That he’s somehow aware, that he doesn’t miss out on it completely.

It’s dumb and irrational, but he can’t help it. Not when he knows Kevin and how much a gesture like this would’ve mattered to him.

Once again, he feels Marcel’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. He sends him a weak smile in return and feels the urge to let the tears flow loosen its hold on him.

There, in the dark, cold and clear night, lit up by the gigantic floodlights, creating the perfect atmosphere for a fantastic derby, the Borussia players play what seems to be the match of their lives. As they totally outplay the blue and white, one ball after another ends up behind Ralf Fährmann, and it’s not because he’s not doing the best he can – BVB are simply on fire and seem to find every possible little loophole, taking advantage of their every opportunity, merciless and unforgiving. First Shinji, then Mario, then Sven, then Lukasz, then Nuri, and, last but not least, Marco, who spent his entire youth next to Kevin on the pitch in Ahlen. And they all, in their own individual ways, dedicate their goals to their former teammate.

By each goal and each gesture, Manuel feels tears welling up in his eyes again, and his heart swells and starts beating fast against the black and yellow crest on his chest; he might be wearing his own colours around his neck, but under all the warm clothes, clinging to his skin, the closest to his heart, he’s got Kevin’s, with Kevin’s name stretching across his shoulder blades.

And for the first time in his life, a lost derby doesn’t feel like a defeat.


End file.
